Scroll of the Sil Naakin: A Soul Eater and Skyrim AU
by GrayBones
Summary: It's just his luck. Apparently one should not attempt a border crossing in wartimes, not unless one desires a prime spot on the chopping block. If it wasn't obvious the Nine Divines hated his sorry ass, some Imperial greenhorn had to catch him and smack him over the head hard enough to make him forget his own name. So he can't let her die, not until she tells him what she knows.
1. kiin ko yol

**Disclaimer of sorts: This monster of an idea has been rattling in its cage in my head for months now, so I had to put some of it down. I am most likely biting off far more than I can chew here, but I never was one to listen to my better judgement.**

**I am a Skyrim addict, so it's only natural that I would start fantasizing about my favorite characters showing up in my favorite game.**

**I am in no way an expert on either the Soul Eater verse nor the incredibly complex Elder Scrolls lore. This AU is meant to take the majority of its plot and general environs from Skyrim/Elder Scrolls and weaves in the characters from Soul Eater (all of them, hopefully) in various forms. I welcome and hope for feedback related to either verse and how well or poorly I stick to what's important. That being said, I plan to take liberties with both in the interest of telling the story. I sincerely hope I do not offend. Be gentle with my first AU!**

**I have no idea if this is going to turn into anything worth reading, but I do hope you follow along, review, PM, and generally give me advice when you can. You shouldn't need to know anything about Skyrim to understand what's going on, but I will try to provide explanation in the bottom of later chapters if anyone PMs me a question.**

**And in case anyone following Dissonance is concerned, I have another uber late chapter in the wings that I plan to have up in the next couple weeks or sooner.**

**Oh, and, as always, this is majorly SOMA with notes of TsuStar and possibly other pairings that tickle me. ENJOY!**

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**_Prologue_**

_The High King of Skyrim is dead, killed, most say, by one of his own jarls. Civil war smolders in pockets across the land, dividing loyalties. TheNords claim to desire nothing more than freedom—the right to worship their mortal-turned-god. The Empire forbids it, as much out of fear of elven retribution as religious devotion. And yet there are whispers—warnings no one wants to believe—of a prophecy within the Elder Scrolls themselves. It tells of the return of the dragons, a time when the future of the world will be decided in one great battle between Asura, god of madness and destruction and a man with no name. The people will come to call him dovakiin, dragonborn, but the dragons will know him as sil naakin, soul eater. _

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**Ch.1**

**_kiin ko yol (born in fire)_**

_Hearken now, sons of snow, to an age long ago._

_And the tale, boldly told, of the one._

He awoke with the tang of winter in his nose—and then because of the pain. It was not the sharp pain of a fresh wound or broken bone, somehow he knew those all too intimately, though he couldn't say why. No, this was the dull throb of being twisted and contorted into shapes his body was not made for. And his head hurt—gods his head hurt.

For one terrifying moment he thought he might be blind—everything was dark and directionless. But then the dark began to lighten, and in that gray fog he recognized the chortling of a horse, and the shape and smell of such a creature and the way its breath would cloud the winter night sky came flooding back to him in a wash of images and sensations. Eventually, the swimming world broke into focus again. It prickled in his brain like a limb awakening, and he blinked through the discomfort of it and his cramped muscles, until the landscape solidified into reality—bare branches, pines, craggy rocks, and a road all dusted in snow.

_Where am I?_

He was on a moving wagon, that much was painfully clear. He wrists stung—rope burn. He was bound and had been for a long time judging by the numbness in his fingers.

_I'm a prisoner? Lovely._

The cart jolted over a root in the road, and for the first time he noticed the person across from him. A man, broad shouldered but hunched in discomfort. He looked tough—someone somewhere in this prisoner's life would have called him "hardboiled," but he could not for the life of him remember who it was that would have said it.

In any respect, the man had had long light hair that hung in his eyes and poorly made armor—leather and tattered cloth and a bit of maille—cheap, mass-produced. Although judging from the numbness of his own arse and the chafed, wind-bitten feel of his arms, the prisoner guessed he was not particularly well dressed either.

"You're awake," the man said, looking up in astonishment. His accent was thick but oddly familiar. "They got you when you tried to cross the border. You're lucky they didn't shoot you on sight with how you look, boy."

The prisoner glanced down at himself, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. His feet were bare and sore, which probably meant he had, in fact, owned shoes at some point in his life. And his sorry excuse for trousers were ripped and muddy and speckled with either dried blood or liquefied cow manure, but that didn't smack him as odd either.

"Where am I?" He coughed. His throat felt raw, like he'd swallowed hot ashes.

"You've been captured. Walked right into an Imperial ambush same as us…and that thief over there."

The prisoner turned in the direction of his gesture. The "thief," he guessed, was the thin man huddling at the end of the cart, dressed in rags and nervously digging his dirty fingers into his knees. The man beside him was an imposing figure, shoulders rivaling the mountains in breadth, in a thick fur cloak with a rag tied tightly over his mouth.

_Odd. Why aren't we gagged as well?_

"Goddamn Stormcloaks!" The thief grumbled suddenly. "Skyrim was fine until you lot had to start drudging up trouble. Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn't been patrolling the borders looking for you, I could have stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell by now." The thief shifted his gaze and met the prisoner's stare. "You and I shouldn't even be here. We're not rebels."

_I'm not? _The prisoner didn't know who he was. When he tried to recall a name or a face to go with the fuzzy idea of himself all he got was a deeper headache. Obviously he didn't look like a rebel to these men. But then why had he been trying to cross the border?

"Do you—" He coughed again but the rasp remained. "Do you know who I am?"

The man with the cheap armor laughed. "Boy, she hit you pretty hard, eh?"

_She? _The prisoner must have looked confused because Cheap Armor nodded toward the horse and it's rider behind them.

"The scrawny blond there. She's a new recruit, I think, but she's got a hell of a chop. We saw you go down and—" He whistled respectfully.

The prisoner narrowed his eyes at the rider behind them. He could just make out her shape on the horse as it trotted in their shadow. _Damn, she's small_—d_warfish._ He bit the inside of his cheek in frustration. For some reason, the idea that something so tiny had overtaken him tweaked his choler slightly—OK, maybe more than slightly. He was obviously a man of pride.

"Anyway, looked like you two were arguing when the rest of the legion caught up to her. She might know who you are. Not that it matters, really. We're all brothers in binds now."

"Shut up, back there." The carriage driver hissed, cracking the reigns. Cheap Armor made a vulgar gesture at the back of his head.

"I'm not one of you." The thief moaned. "I don't give a skeever's arse about your war. And what the hell is his problem, anyway? Bad breath?" He kicked out at the gagged man with a bare foot.

Cheap Armor's eyes narrowed. "Watch your tongue, you ingrate! That's Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm and the true high king. Show some respect."

The thief visibly stiffened, eyes darting from Cheap Armor to the gagged prisoner. "Ulfric? The leader of the rebellion? But if they've captured you…you're…oh gods, where are they taking us?"

Cheap Armor laughed sharply. "I don't know where we're going, but I'd wager Shor's Hall awaits us…_well_, some of us. I've often wondered about the mead in Sovngarde—what it tastes like. Will it give you a proper headache or is it all an endless drunken stupor?"

_Sovngard_. That word hit every nerve in the prisoner's body. An image of a purple sky shot with lightening burned behind his eyes. He blinked it away.

_The hell?_

"This can't be happening. This can't be happening." The thief squirmed in his binds.

"Hey, where are you from, horse thief?" Cheap Armor asked.

"Why do you care?" He spat back.

"Because you're a Nord by your speech. And a Nord's last thoughts should be of home."

_Last thoughts? _The prisoner pulled at his own binds. _I can't die yet. I can't die when I don't even know who I am._

"Rorikstead. I was born in Rorikstead." The thief sighed. "But I haven't been back in…" He fell silent. They all did. Because the high stone walls of a village were coming into view around a twist in the road, and a haphazardly organized mass of men and women in uniform stood at the open gates.

"General Tullius, sir. The headsman is waiting." A female soldier on horseback called. Her horse was slick with sweat and dust from the road. They'd probably rode all night to get the prisoners here—to bring them swiftly to their deaths.

A close-shaven older man appeared to their left, also on horseback, but with the molded, gold detailed cuirass of a high-ranking official. He grumbled back. "Good. Let's…get this over with."

"Shor, Mara, Dibella, Kynareth, Akatosh…divines, please help me." The thief sobbed as they passed under the gate and into the village.

_I think…I think I know those names_, the prisoner thought dimly_. Should I pray? What good would it do if I don't even know whose soul it is I'm trying to save?_

He closed his eyes and tried to peel back the fog over his memory. Those names—they meant something. An image of a room, candlelit, with long stone benches, where bearded men sat chanting soft and powerful words appeared. But it skittered across his consciousness and disappeared.

"Look at him. That pig." Cheap Armor grunted. "General Tullius, the military governor." He spat on the floor of the cart as if the taste of the words offended him. "And surprise, surprise, it looks like the Thalmor are with him. Damn elves and their trickery. I'll bet they're behind this."

_Elves? _The prisoner craned his neck around to try and catch a glimpse of one, but every soldier was head-to-toe armor and each looked relatively the same, give or take some detailing or a helmet. Except…he blinked though the chill wind to try and make out the tall figure who'd just ridden up alongside the man they called Tullius. The two were far behind them now, but he could tell even at this distance that the second soldier was different. His armor gleamed like gold but looked as light and flexible as cloth. He wagered it was strong and easy to move in but not as durable as a heavier iron set—good for horseback and archery, not for hand-to-hand combat.

_Must be the elf. No typical Imperial soldier could afford that sort of craftsmanship. _The prisoner shook his head, nearly growling in frustration. _How do I know all this?_

"Used to be sweet on a girl from here." Cheap Armor sighed, leaning back in the wagon and studying the old stone and thatch houses that slid past them on each side. He must have taken the prisoner's mystified look as his cue to explain because he smiled and sat forward, pointing to one particular building; a sign out front advertised mead.

"I spent a lot of time here as a youth, at that mead hall in particular. Ah, Brynn—what a lass, and with a mouth that could…well, anyway, this is Helgen. It's on the southern border in the hold of Falkreath. We're not far from Cyrodiil, actually. I wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with the juniper berries mixed in." He winked at him. "Think these old stiffs would let us out for a last pint?"

The prisoner almost laughed. Almost, because he couldn't recall the taste of mead or juniper berries. He had no idea if he'd ever tasted anything but his own dry tongue. And now, he would never find out.

A crowd was gathering. People were coming out of their homes and leaning out their windows to catch a glimpse of the rebels and their impending demise. A woman eyed them suspiciously as she tossed her wash water out onto the street. A young boy with dirty feet sat on his front porch, legs dangling, eating a sweetmeat on a stick and grinning as they passed. This must be quite a show for a small town like this.

"Funny. When I was a lad, Imperial walls and towers like these used to make me feel so safe," Cheap Armor gestured to the thick walls and guard towers that surrounded the city, protecting it from attack.

"Haming, come inside." An older man—the boy's father, no doubt—called from the doorway. The boy protested but the battle was lost as soon as his father cast him a hard look. His son would see enough of this world's true side when he got older.

_Let the children have their dreams for as long as they can carry them, _the prisoner recalled. It was a voice from his memory, barely above a whisper. He couldn't put a face to the words. Another bit of wisdom from sources unknown.

The cart clattered over uneven cobblestones as it entered the village center where the rest of the soldiers and a group of villagers waited. The driver pulled the horses to a stop across from a squat tower casting its shadow over a dirt courtyard. Dark flags hung to either side, still in the cold air. The headsman in his leather apron waited with his axe over one shoulder.

The prisoner felt his insides coil. If he'd had any food in his gut he'd have lost it by now.

"Get those prisoners down from there." A soldier barked; it was a woman with a molded iron breastplate. The prisoner wagered she ranked high for a custom piece like that, a captain perhaps. "Move it!" She scolded. Her underlings scrambled to clear the crowd and pull the prisoners down from the carts.

"W-why are we stopped?" The thief scrambled back as the soldiers reached for Ulfric.

"Why do you think? End of the line." Cheap Armor muttered, rising to his feet.

"No, wait!" A soldier grabbed for the thief's arm. "You can't! I'm not a rebel! Tell them, Ralof!"

"Face your death with some dignity, horse thief!" Cheap Armor—Ralof—snapped. The thief didn't hear him, or didn't care. His face was deathly white. His eyes darted wildly to the opening at the end of the cart and to the mountains beyond.

The prisoner shook his head vehemently as the thief met his eyes, glancing intentionally to the line of archers beside them. _He won't make it thirty paces._

That dwarf girl—the blond who'd supposedly knocked him out—took the initiative and grabbed the thief by the bicep, yanking him to the ground. Ulfric, Ralof, and the prisoner followed of their own volition.

"There's your girl. Bit of a manly one, but she's not so bad. Bet she'd be a little saber cat in the sack." Ralof whispered loudly, nudging his shoulder. "Think you can get a quickie in before they call your name?"

The prisoner scowled. Another reminder of things he understood but couldn't quite remember and probably never would. The blond soldier tipped her hide helmet back a bit to scratch her head and he got a brief glimpse of her face in the gray light of winter. She had delicate features and huge, expressive green eyes—her pale skin flushed with cold and exertion. She wasn't ugly, if a bit angry looking.

"Step toward the block as I call your name." She commanded, her eyes dropping to the list she'd pulled from her pack and now held in front of her.

"Oh, of course. The Empire loves their damn lists, don't they princess?" Ralof muttered. The blond shot him a look but said nothing.

"Ulfric Stormcloak, of Windhelm." She called. The jarl shoved past the other prisoners, amidst a buzz of interest—gasps, shouts of "justice" and "death" from the crowd—and took his place in the group of prisoners from the other wagons already awaiting execution. Ralof nodded to him, intoning something about honor and privilege to have served. The prisoner fought back a wave of nausea.

"Ralof, of Riverwood." She called. His cart companion smiled broadly at her, winking suggestively, and joined the jarl. She rolled her eyes.

"Lokir, of Rorikstead."

The thief took a step forward, then stopped. He was shaking bodily, his bare feet stuck fast in the frosted mud even as a soldier grabbed for his arm.

"Y-you won't take me." He whispered, shooting a look over his shoulder. The prisoner caught the look, the desperation, and tried to call out, but it was too late. His words, his warning, froze in his throat. Lokir knew about the archers, he must. But he broke free anyway, pushing past the soldiers, flinging mud and rocks in his wake.

"Archers!" The captain called. The thief didn't look, didn't stop. He was running flat out now, hands still bound, tripping a bit without his arms for balance, making for the mountains that looked nearly impassable even with all limbs free and rested faculties and a good pair of boots.

It might have been a mercy, the prisoner reasoned, when the archer lazily set him in her sights and released a single arrow. It only took one. Lokir's body dropped cold fifty paces from the wall.

"Anyone else feel like running?" The captain cleared her throat and nodded back to the blond soldier reading from the list. The blond swallowed, eyes narrowing at the names in front of her. She paused, letting a breath out between her teeth, and darted a look at him.

"I'm probably not on your list." He offered a shaky smile.

"I know." She growled through clenched teeth. "_You _told me not to write it down."

"Me? I—" The idea sent a little shock down his spine—a slender thread of hope. _She knows! I have to live. Gods, I have to find out who I am before I die._

"W-what else did I tell you? Did I tell you my name? Why I was running?"

She shook her head but it wasn't really a "no;" it was a "_not here_."

_Gods, woman, if not here, where? My neck and that axe are about to become awfully close mates._ He tried to communicate the absolute desperation and terror trembling in his gut through his eyes. She caught the look and gripped her list tighter.

"Problem, soldier?" The captain peered over the blond's shoulder at the paper.

"He's um, he's not on the list. Perhaps—"

The captain snorted, glancing up to assess him. Obviously she alone had been granted the right to decide a man's fate based on nothing more than a look. And he had been found wanting.

"Forget the list. He goes to the block." She sneered.

The blond swallowed audibly, eyes ticking back to him. He thought he caught a brief flash of pity or, perhaps, regret.

"By orders, captain. I-I'm sorry." She murmured the last part so softly he doubted anyone else heard.

"But…I. Please, at least, tell me—" He fumbled for the words that might make her release at least something of his past for him to hold on to.

His feet were stone as someone pushed him toward the group. His gut was quivering, threatening to launch him into dry heaves.

Tullius spoke up then, standing not quite to Ulfric's chin. Still, even without an imposing stature, the governor's righteous anger was written in every line of his face and the prisoner found himself shrinking back from his shadow. This was a duty, but he took no pleasure in it.

"You started this war," the governor said flatly, pressing one finger into Ulfric's chest. "But it's gotten away from you, hasn't it? Skyrim is in chaos. The people think you're a hero, even as your men pit brother against brother. How many childless mothers would you have made before you'd sated your bloody thirst? A _hero_—that's what these people think you are, but we know better, don't we? A hero doesn't use an unearthly power like the voice to kill his king and usurp his throne, turn his people into a writhing mass of hatred and fear. Where is your pride now, hero? What _would_ you say if I took off that gag?"

The governor made as if to removed it, fingers curling in the air. The crowd responded in kind—some shouted curses, called for blood, others chanted Ulfric's name. Neither seemed to please Tullius. He sighed, dropped his arms and seemed to shrink in on himself before turning back to nod at the headsman and the robed woman beside him.

The woman raised her hands over her head and closed her eyes. "As we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the eight divines upon you," she called.

_Eight? Nine? Is there even one that can hear me?_

He barely heard the call for the first prisoner, never registered the man's courageous last words, but the bright red plume of blood and the thud of his head hitting the basket would echo in his soul forever.

_I'm going to die. I'm going to die alone with no name and no past. Like I never even existed. Why? Is this my whole purpose—to wake and then to die?_

He tried to catch her eye again, she who was currently the only person in the world that might know his name. But she wouldn't look up. Standing behind him, her bangs obscured her face.

_Look up. Please, look at me._

Not that it would have made a difference but, for some strange reason, he wanted—needed—to hang onto something that wasn't cold and terrifying in this moment. And her green eyes had been so soft and warm despite her harsh tone. Was it wrong to want the last eyes he met to reflect something other than hatred or indifference, even if it was regret, even if it was pity?

"Next. The Nord with the white hair."

_A Nord? I am. I am a Nord. _Another tiny piece of the mystery dangled in front of him, just out of reach. He would never even know his own face.

"I said, next prisoner!" The captain shouted. The blond took his arm and steered him toward the front. She was gentle, guiding his shoulder.

"Nice and easy, prisoner." She whispered, helping him kneel clumsily in the cold mud by the block, her cool hand lingering on his back.

He could smell the blood on the ground, some had pooled in the indentation in the back of the stone, meant to channel the gore cleanly into a basket on the other side. He could see bits of hair and shards of white bone clinging to the stone's edge. His vision blurred, swam. He knew he was shaking violently. He knew if he'd had a full bladder it would certainly be running down his leg now.

_I don't die like this. I can't die like this. _There was something, something he had to do. He could feel it with every pound of his heart in his ears.

Someone put a boot in his back—roughly pressing his chest into the gristly stone. The world tipped on its axis and he felt the wet blood, still warm, seeping into his shirt as the headsman raised his axe and blotted out the weak winter sun. But then, he thought he saw the silhouette of something monstrous, winged and black, appearing out of the clouds. It landed on the tower, talons digging into stone. But it couldn't be...

_This is a dream. It's a nightmare. _

"What in blazes is that?!" Someone behind him was yelling. He could feel footfalls vibrating through the dirt. People were running, screaming.

"Dragon!"

_It can't be_.

The monster opened its jaws and a sound like thunder rippled over him.

"YOL TOOR SHUL."

That's when his whole world caught fire.


	2. kotin vulom

**I'm really excited about the feedback already! Yay for my fellow gamers! For those of you hanging on having never played Skyrim-go, now, buy it, is worth every cent, er, Septim. But you don't have to. PM the questions if you have 'em.**

**I don't own anything that is great or worthy in this-plot, characters, dragon language, Ralof's snark...OK, I sort of own that last one. Anyway, I hope this pleases the super nerds of the fandom, or, at the very least, I hope it doesn't offend. I plan on diverging from the original plot more and more as I go, but we'll always end up in relatively the same places. Give me your two Septims if you have a moment. I'd love to know how I'm doing. Amativ!**

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**Ch.2**

**_kotin vulom_** **_(into darkness)_**

_We're the children of Skyrim, and we fight all our lives._

_And when Sovngarde beckons, every one of us dies._

"Hey, white-hair, get up! We might not get another chance!"

He was shaking; from somewhere above, thunder rumbled, vibrating through the bones in his chest.

_A storm is coming. I should shut the windows. _

"In the name of the Divines, will you wake up? You spend more time in Vaermina's dream land than anyone I've ever—"

There it was again, the shaking. No, wait. He was _being_ shaken. Someone was shaking him.

He opened his eyes to Ralof's slightly out of focus look of concern and the smell of rotten eggs and burning hair.

"Wha—what's on fire?" He could smell it. Come to think of it, he could taste it—sulphur and acid and hot metal. The tang was oddly familiar. Another roll of thunder shook the ground.

"Would you get up? That thing—it'll be back once it's finished with our Imperial friends."

"Thing?"

Ralof grabbed his arm and hauled him to his feet, one hand on his shoulder to steady him. "Don't you hear it? Come on. We can unscramble your eggs later, boy. We have to find cover." The prisoner stumbled a bit, wrists still bound, as Ralof half dragged him across the square.

The town was already in flames. The very stones of the towers were on fire and the thatched roofs of the houses and those over the patrol paths of the walls were burning outright. Ash floated around them like snow.

_How long was I out? It couldn't have been more than a moment._

The creature roared again from somewhere above and a blast of fire followed, exploding what remained of a tower to their right. He shielded his face from the intense heat as a curtain of flaming rock and debris pitted the ground around them, raining down on houses and barns. A woman and two young girls ran out of one hut screaming and batting flames off their clothes.

"Keep your eyes on the sky! It's up in the clouds, but it can surely aim!" Ralof called over a shoulder.

Smoke, drifting in hot, stinging clouds had them coughing and shouting hoarsely to each other by the time they reached the shelter of the few remaining houses. The prisoner barely missed tripping over something charred and smelling vaguely of overcooked ham draped across their path. With horror, he realized it was a body—a cooked one. And several other smoking black piles dotted the courtyard. People were running in every direction, dragging and carrying wounded people, animals, and belongings behind. He could hear them more than see them through the smoke and ash.

The ground rippled as something large and not nearly far enough away landed behind them. They ducked quickly behind the remains of a front porch, clinging to the shadows.

"Is that…that can't be…" He swallowed his words and caught Ralof's eye. The beast roared and another blast of heat nearly took his breath away. They dove for an alley, keeping against the wall.

"You mean you didn't see it?" His companion looked incredulous. "You had a prime view from the chopping block. Of course, you might have been distracted by that axe coming for your neck."

They both stopped and cast a look back through the eerie haze.

_What did I see? _The whole morning had left him reeling and slightly numb—like one of those nightmares you can't wake from but you know it's just too terrible to be true._ But then there was a shadow, something with wings and glowing red eyes. It seemed like…like it knew me. And it spoke. _

_No, that can't be. An animal doesn't speak_.

"I—I don't know what I saw. Wings? Fangs? Something impossible. I thought it was an illusion."

"Then you saw it, alright—a bloody black fire-breathing monster!" Ralof stopped, holding up a hand for him to wait just before they reached the city walls, darting a look back at what the prisoner guessed was the dragon circling somewhere behind and above them. He didn't dare check.

"You're one lucky bastard, you know that? I think you were the only one that close who survived. The bastard headsman, those three Imperial guards, and the priestess—smoked. Just like that." He shook his head. "Did you piss yourself? Boy, I think I did. Ah, in here!" He grabbed the prisoner's arm and pulled him through an opening in the wall and into one of the guard towers. The door was only open for a second before someone was bolting it behind them, barricading the entrance with the remains of a chair.

Although warmer and brighter, the tower was no less gruesome than the courtyard. Several wounded or burned rebels had been dragged inside, some lay bleeding from gashes so deep, bones and organs glistened in the torchlight.

"Did you see what happened to that girl—the blond?" He asked once they were inside.

"You mean the scrappy kid that knocked you one? Little inconvenient time to be thinking with your nether regions."

"No! I think she...she might know who I am."

"Well, she looked tough, and I didn't see her go down, so you might still get a piece when it's all over." He clapped him hard on the back, forcing a cough that tasted like ashes and ham. "Granted she doesn't haul you back in for surviving your own beheading."

"Ralof!" The man who'd barricaded the door grasped him roughly by the arms, eyes wide. "Is it true? Are the legends true? Is it really a dragon?"

"It is. I thought the pages of the Elder Scrolls themselves came alive when I saw the bloody thing hanging off the tower." He replied. "I never thought I'd live to see the legends come true."

"Ralof, don't frighten them. It's a beast, that's all it is. You know as well as I do, legends don't burn down villages." The prisoner turned as Ulfric, the man Tullius called a traitor and Ralof called lord, appeared behind them, ungagged and unbound with his arms crossed over his broad chest.

He couldn't help openly studying him—the man they say killed a king with a mere word. What was it the general had said? _A hero doesn't use a power like the voice to kill his king and usurp his throne_. This man didn't look like a hero or a king; he just looked tired and worried and dusty like the rest of them.

"You saw it, too, my lord. It couldn't be anything else."

"Yes, I saw it well enough. But a dragon is no more a stranger to this land than a saber cat or an ice wolf or a Nord, for that matter. Just because we hunted them to the edge of Oblivion doesn't mean there aren't a few remaining."

"But—"

"This is a creature, a beast, not some harbinger of the end times."

As if hearing his legend so dismissed, the beast let loose a roar that made the hair on the prisoner's arms rise; it was much closer now than when they'd rushed in. The tower shook. Mortar and dust rained down.

"It's found us!" Ulfric shouted. "Ralof, Korlad, we need to move! Grab anyone you can carry and follow me." He threw one unconscious man over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and made for the stone staircase that wound its way up the inside of the tower behind them.

"What? Where are we-?" He sputtered. Ralof shoved him forward.

"Less talk, more climbing. Would you rather be here when that dragon brings the place down around us?"

"You do realize dragons fly?" He struggled to maintain his balance on the steep stairs as Ralof pushed him and the tower shook with the force of a great body slamming into it. "Going up is just…putting us all at a more convenient biting level!" He called to the line of men ahead of him. "For the love of—could you at least untie me? I can't even defend myself."

"Oh, so you do have opinions? Eh, white-hair? Here I thought you were a bit daft—after all those knocks to the head—thought maybe you couldn't do anything but ask stupid questions." Ralof chuckled through a fit of coughing and proceeded to mock him in a high-pitched voice. "Where am I, Ralof? What is that, Ralof? What's going on, Ralof?"

The prisoner was just about to turn around and let him know just how many opinions he actually _had_ on how gods damned stupid this whole situation was, and how the lot of them—and the Imperials—could go to Sovngarde and clean unholy privies together in eternity for all he cared, when another blow to the tower immediately preceded the chilling sound of stone cracking and giving way above them.

"Gods, the—all of you, get away from that wall!" Ralof shouted. Too late.

A chunk of wall the size of a dinner table came sailing past their heads along with a torrent of fire, several bodies, and air so hot he could hear his own skin sizzling. He flattened himself against the steps just in time to feel the scrape of debris across his cheek as it blew past and exploded into fiery stone shrapnel on the floor below. Any wounded men they'd left behind would be with their gods now.

"Keep going, you idiots!" Ralof shouted, grinning manically. "There's a roof on the other side of the tower and the beast has made us a nice balcony!"

"For what? Enjoying the view?!" He dragged himself forward. Ulfric and the others ahead of them disappeared into a rolling cloud of dust and smoke. He followed the hazy silhouette of one man jumping through the wall and then another. The creature roared. The sound of its jaws snapping shut over bones and flesh was enough to tell him at least one of those soldiers had not made it to the roof. His dying scream was thankfully short.

"I didn't escape a beheading just to become some legendary beast's mid-morning snack!"

"Look, sweet roll, I'd rather take our chances out there than stay in here and let him smoke us to death. He's eaten, obviously." Ralof grimaced. "So, he probably isn't interested in us now. Just…don't think about it, yeah?" Somehow, even with blood and sweat running down his face and a fire-breathing monster grumbling outside, the rebel managed to look mostly unfazed—as if this was just another day.

The prisoner turned back to the opening, peering around the edge for signs of the beast. Ralof pointed through it to the broken roof beams and blazing floorboards of a building below. "See the inn there below us? Jump through the roof and onto the second floor. The dragon won't even see you if you're fast enough. And I'll be right behind you."

"Just…jump? With my hands bound?"

"I don't have a weapon on me, kid, and I don't have time to find one to free you. Tuck and roll."

"Are you out of your skull you—" And with that, the man gave him an unceremonious shove and he was flying through the smoke and burning embers of sky above the village. The roof and floor beyond rushed up too fast—the prisoner wasn't prepared, and having already been unconscious twice in as many hours certainly didn't help with his reflexes. At least that was what he told himself as his head clipped a loose ceiling joist and the shockwave it sent down his spine sent him reeling nearly into darkness again. He barely felt his body hit the ground.

"I..I'm going to kill you…Ralof. If you ever…untie me." He moaned, struggling through the heaviness of yet another brush with unconsciousness. But then he felt those cool hands on him again—on the side of his throat and his arm. He sighed and let his muscles relax. He supposed if he _was_ to have an angel of some sort transport his half-burnt, obviously useless, sorry excuse for soul to Aetherius or Sovngarde or wherever, it might as well be her—the only one who knew him. She was a little scrawny, but she'd do.

"Gods, you're heavy." She groaned. He started awake. The blond dwarf soldier girl—_his_ blond dwarf soldier girl—was currently dragging him by the elbow toward one of the caved-in walls of the inn. He could just make out the brightness of sky behind her head through the gaping holes in the walls and the sun was shining on his face through the ceiling. Apparently he'd fallen through both the roof _and_ the second floor. He was starting to wonder if the gods wanted him dead or if they just wanted to leave him crippled and dumb.

_Wait, where is she taking me? _He flashed back to the headsman and bolted upright. His violent shifting knocked her off balance and she stumbled away from him, quickly drawing a dagger from some hidden sheath in her leather armor, green eyes wide.

"Hey! I'm trying to save you, you ungrateful cretin! This place is going to collapse any minute!"

"Save me? Why would you save me?"

He watched as her eyebrows drew together in complete shock at his question. She'd lost her helmet and her dark blond hair—once probably braided—was all askew and hanging in her eyes and covered in ash. She must have found a massive sword as well, because it was now strapped to her back and the hilt was sticking up like a horn behind her head. He would have laughed if she didn't look so tiny and angry.

_She's too young to be fighting a war_, he thought. And then he wondered just how old _he_ was. They'd said he had white hair, yet Ralof had called him "boy." He was in too much pain from being thrown out of buildings and tossed out of carts and nearly cooked alive to gage how old his body felt. His brain certainly felt young enough to be afraid and terribly confused, but then who wouldn't be without memories to tie anchor to.

"Why would I…_save_ you?" She repeated his question, voice rising in disbelief.

"Yes. Why?"

"Is this really the time to be asking that? You're lucky I saw you fall out of that tower at all."

"_Pushed_, I was _pushed_, and yes. I think this is the perfect time for you to start explaining yourself. Before one or both of us is roasted alive, if you don't mind."

She studied him a moment, eyes dancing in obvious frustration and spots of hot color appearing in her cheeks. Finally her fingers loosened on the hilt of her dagger and she sighed. "All right, if you must know. I made you a promise before you…before you forgot who you were."

"A promise?"

"Yes. I promised I would help you if I could. I don't know why in the gods' names I promised, but I didn't wager on a dragon attack, and you know what they say about hindsight…"

"No. I don't know what they say. Because I have _no memories_."

She winced. "I might know something about that too."

He opened his mouth to—politely—demand she explain herself when they were interrupted by a piercing scream. She stiffened.

"Was that?"

Another scream—undoubtedly that of a child. Their eyes met briefly before a third scream spurred her into action. She sheathed the dagger, told him to get his "arse" moving before the roof came down on top of him and darted back out an opening in the wall into the brightness of the vulnerable outside world.

He took one look at the smoking ruins around him, swore, and followed her, nearly tripping over yet another broken shield at his feet as he watched her charge across the open street toward the source of the screams.

_It's probably just a goat or a—_it was a young boy, not more than 100 paces from the inn, huddled in the shadows of another ruined house. The prisoner squinted in the glare. It was Haming—he remembered the child's round face and keen eyes watching them as they rode into town. And he remembered the boy's father's look of resigned disgust as they passed. He wasn't sure which group the father had been more disgusted with—the soldiers or the rebel prisoners—but it didn't much matter now.

_Let the children have their dreams, for as long as they can carry them._

But now that same sheltered boy was screaming, white tear tracks down his cheeks, clutching at his dead father's hand in the bare dirt. He was utterly exposed. And the dragon was bound to hear him shrieking and come to claim another snack.

The soldier was running flat out now, yelling for the boy to _get down, move, get away_. But he was wholly distraught—he heard nothing. He certainly couldn't imagine the nightmare that had just killed his father returning for him. He was screaming because he was sure he would wake from it.

_Sometimes it's better to stay asleep._

Behind them, the beast beat its great wings, sending a cyclone of wind and stinging dirt and sound in its wake as it dove out of the clouds. "YOL!" It screamed; a curling tide of fire rolled down from the clouds, catching the burning embers in the air and setting them blazing again.

For the longest two heartbeats of his—albeit short—life thus far, the prisoner watched the fire wash over the street and was sure his soldier was going to die right then, in front of him, and anything he might have learned about himself and his past would die with her—catch fire and burn to ruins.

"Get down!" He yelled. She dropped to one knee, rolling deftly as the blaze whipped over her head. His heart only started again when she looked back over her shoulder at him briefly and kept going.

_Gods damn these people! Are they all insane?_

Swearing more curses under his breath—because the previous one had felt so good on his tongue—the prisoner grabbed up the remains of the shield at his feet with his bound hands. It was too light and had little more than three wide slats of charred wood and a bit of the outer binding left, but it was all he had.

_What am I doing? What am I doing?!_

He took off after her.

The beast was directly overhead now, its shadow turning the world beneath to dusk. Time seemed to crawl as he lunged toward the girl, who'd put herself bravely—foolishly—in front of Haming and was in the process of drawing that impossibly long great sword from its sheath on her back.

He had only a fraction of a heartbeat to decide, but it was a decision he'd already made when he saw her face, green eyes blazing, as she readied her rusted old sword over her head and prepared to battle a creature who had—until just this morning—existed only in legends and children's tales. He couldn't let her die, at least not until she told him what she knew.

The prisoner turned and threw his body in front of her, the remains of the shield the only thing between them and an incoming blast of white fire. He closed his eyes as it hit. Sparks and tendrils of fire exploded around the shield, blasting his legs and shoulders just long enough to know he'd probably be missing all the hair there for a while and knocked him back into her. The dragon flew past with a screech as they landed in a pile over Haming's father's body.

_Yes, I should have stayed asleep, _he thought painfully. His lungs burned and his throat was on fire, but he was alive.

"You…_idiot_." She growled from somewhere beneath him. He rolled off her legs quickly, tossing the remains of the shield to the side, and studying her for any fatal injury as he helped her to her feet.

"I could have handled that." She snapped, brushing off her armor with both hands and scowling.

"With…that?" He asked, blinking and pointing to her great sword.

"Yes."

"That thing's more rust than sword. And can you even lift it?"

"I—Yes, of course! And it's a family heirloom. It was made by the Iron Spirit himself!"

_Iron Spirit_? Somehow that name sounded annoyingly familiar.

"Oh, sorry, so you were planning on what, _stabbing_ the fire with this over sized wall decoration?"

"I don't have to explain myself to you, prisoner."

"Now _that_, right there, is not my name. I don't presently know what my name is because you haven't told me, but prisoner is certainly not it."

She huffed. "It's what you are, so it might as well be. Where's the boy? I have to find General Tullius and join the defense."

"Um, did you hear me? I need to know _who I am_."

"It's all a bit complicated. Did you see which way he went?"

"A person's entire identity generally is!"

"Look_, prisoner_,Ihave a duty to defend this town and these people first. _If _we both survive it, I'll tell you everything I know. Now, help me find that boy."

He supposed she had a small—very tiny—but valid point, though he certainly didn't want to admit it when she was looking so…so self-righteous and heroic. He sighed, pointing in the direction of a group of villagers huddled in a stone archway across the street. The boy was with them.

From the clouds above, another peal of thunder—the roar of the beast, he reminded himself—echoed down and shattered against the mountains.

"We have to get them out of here. For some reason that thing wants this town to burn, and I don't think it's finished." She murmured.

"Stormcloaks!" Haming cried, pointing behind them.

It was Ralof, appearing out of the smoke and the looking perhaps even dirtier and bloodier than when he saw him last. Three of his men followed on his heels. The girl stiffened beside him, picking up her sword and leveling it at the incoming men.

"Ralof! Where are Ulfric and the other prisoners?"

"Long gone, princess." He smirked.

"Dead?"

"Not all."

"By order of the Emperor, you must tell me which direction they went. I'll speak for you personally. I swear it. I'll make sure you all receive a fair trial in Solitude."

The rebel laughed, shaking his head. The other Stormcloaks drew their weapons slowly.

"You mean you'll let us beg forgiveness and repent of our rebel ways at the High Queen's feet? Thanks but no thanks. A free Nord born in Skyrim will always be a rebel in the eyes of the Empire. And I'd rather be dead than bow to any man or woman who denies me the right to worship Talos." He spat.

"Free? Look around you. Freedom has nothing to do with it." The soldier's green eyes burned. "I, too, was born here in Skyrim, like all of you! And I call myself free. Yet I still see the honor in maintaining _peace_ and _order_ for the good of all."

Her words echoed strangely above the din and smoke and left a chill in their wake—he felt it down his spine. And for a moment, he could see her point. Battle, bloodshed, brutality—those were the offspring of rebellion. Freedom might come, but bought at a great cost. More often than not, throwing the yoke of one tyrant meant shackling oneself to the next in line.

The Stormcloaks beside Ralof blinked, looking dazed, their weapon hands faltering. Ralof drew his own sword.

"You aren't one of us, _Imperial_. You might have been born in the snow, but you speak like a silver tongue if I ever heard one. Which was it? Your ma or your pa? I'd wager you haven't a drop of true Nord blood in your veins you Cirodiilian bitch. Go back to your Emperor or we'll send you back in pieces!"

She lunged for him, sword ready, snarling. The prisoner grabbed her arm, wrestling the heavy blade to the ground. "What are you doing? I have a duty!" She shoved him off.

"You're out numbered, you fool!" He grabbed her wrist as she went for the blade again, but she wrenched it away.

_Gods, she's stronger than she looks._

"Listen to him, princess. Tullius and your legionnaire cronies have fled the city. You're all that's left."

"Then I'll take you all in myself."

"There's only one way out of Helgen—one road." Ralof said. "And we're here to make sure you stay off it until Ulfric is long gone."

"We'll be trapped. There are innocent people here!"

"And _we_ have a war to win."

She threw herself at him again, bashing her shoulder painfully into the prisoner's body and—undoubtedly—his several hundred bruises. He held back a snarl of pain as the other Stormcloaks shifted nervously, not sure whether to attack or hold their ground.

"You can't fight them all by yourself!" He pushed her back with both hands and she stumbled a bit in the loose dirt of the road. But when he turned, he found himself staring down the point of Ralof's sword and behind it a hard stare.

"You're siding with the wrong pretty face, sweet roll."

"She's just a kid. She isn't a threat to you or Ulfric, not really. And we need to get these people out of here before that thing comes back."

"Not a threat?" He scoffed. "She's one of _them_."

"She's a greenhorn, like you said, remember? Killing her won't end your war. It won't even ruffle Tullius's hair."

"She stood by. Like all the other traitorous Imperial bastards."

"I did my duty!" She cried. "I'm loyal to Skyrim and her people, not just my ego, but if that makes me a traitor in your eyes, then so be it!"

_"_Hey, you aren't helping!"He scowled over his shoulder at her. She—dutifully—ignored him.

"Ralof, these people have lost their homes and their loved ones. At least take your men and lead them out of here." He said.

"And what about her? Your little greenhorn will follow us."

"You're damn right—"

He turned with a growl and grabbed her arm again, forcing her to look at him. "We have to get these people to safety. That's more important than the Empire's vendetta against Ulfric, right? You said it yourself. _They_ are your duty."

_And my duty right now is to keep you alive until I figure out who in Shor's infernal hoard I'm supposed to be,  
_he thought.

Her face paled at his words, eyes darting to the people behind them watching the powers that be argue over their fates. The dragon rumbled in agitation from above. She sighed, shoulders sagging.

"The keep." She said finally. "They built it over a system of caves. It leads out far north of Helgen on the road to Riverwood. You should be able to guide these people to safety on the main road and be long gone by the time I find my way out of there."

"And how do we know you won't follow once we leave?"

She glared up at them through her bangs. "I suppose you'll have to lock me in."


End file.
